Outside the closed door of his office, the station echoed with the clamor of ringing telephones, bursts of static from police radios, and boisterous voices, mostly male and often profane.
He glanced at his watch, confirming that the time was eleven A.M., then swiveled slowly in his chair to survey the seven men and one woman assembled before him. A few were seated in metal chairs they’d brought in from the squad room; most stood leaning against file cabinets or walls. None looked happy.
He was seeing the key members of the special task force hunting the Gryphon. All of them were veteran Homicide detectives. Individually or in pairs they supervised teams of less-experienced detectives and uniformed cops.
There was one man in the room who was not part of the task force. The division commander, Captain Bill Paulson, sat in a corner sipping herbal tea from a seemingly bottomless mug.
“All right, everybody.” Delgado’s calm, authoritative voice instantly silenced the low babble of conversation. “Let’s go over what we have.”
He summarized the situation they were faced with. Nearly two weeks had passed since Elizabeth Osborn’s murder, and with the elimination of Albert Garrett as a suspect, the task force appeared to be no closer to finding the killer.
The only recent development, one that was not unexpected, had been the delivery on Friday of the third tape. Over the weekend Delgado had listened to it many times; he now had a new voice to haunt his sleep.
Frustration was building. Delgado did his best to boost morale. “The case could break wide open at any time,” he reminded them. “So let’s hear what you have. Eddie?”
Eddie Torres frowned. “The spotters at the funeral saw a few unfamiliar faces, but we’ve checked out those guys, and they’re clean. The photos SID snapped of the gawkers at the Osborn crime scene haven’t yielded diddly. We’ve compared them to the crowd shots from the first two murders, and we can’t make any matches. Two black-and-whites are running regular patrols of Osborn’s neighborhood, and they’ve caught a few thrill seekers nosing around, but nobody interesting.”
“And the hardware stores?”
“No luck on the hacksaw or blades.” Torres sighed. “Basically, Seb, we’re batting zero.”
“Maybe not for long,” Delgado said, trying to sound reassuring. “Donna, Harry, how about you?”
“Still at it, Seb,” Donna Wildman answered. “Going through Osborn’s Rolodex. She had a lot of friends and even more business associates.”
“We’ve finished interviewing her neighbors,” Harry Jacobs added. “They barely knew her, as usual in the big city. And we’ve found her datebook, so we’re calling up her old boyfriends and, I think, scaring the shit out of them.”
“That can’t be helped.”
“As for linking her with the other victims—so far, nothing.”
“Her ex-husband?”
“Alibied,” Wildman said. “Yeah, that occurred to us too. Guy cools the first two just to make the third one look random. But it turns out that only happens on TV.”
“What else are you pursuing?”
Wildman shrugged. “What aren’t we? Her medical records, family history, recent vacations. The works.”
“Okay. Tommy?”
Tom Gardner, the task force’s liaison with Forensics, looked up from the Bic pen he was rolling restlessly between his palms.
“We’ve printed all of Osborn’s friends and neighbors,” he said, “anyone who might have been in that house. There was a lot of glass, and SID found plenty of latents. We’re working on eliminating prints now. Donna and Harry got me a list of the people in the Rolodex and the datebook, and we’re printing them too. It’s a hell of a job, and the evidence techs say this bastard wears gloves anyway.”
Delgado ignored his last comment. It was true that smooth glove prints had been found at the crime scenes, but there was always a chance that the killer had removed his gloves before or after one of the
He glanced at his watch, confirming that the time was eleven A.M., then swiveled slowly in his chair to survey the seven men and one woman assembled before him. A few were seated in metal chairs they’d brought in from the squad room; most stood leaning against file cabinets or walls. None looked happy.
He was seeing the key members of the special task force hunting the Gryphon. All of them were veteran Homicide detectives. Individually or in pairs they supervised teams of less-experienced detectives and uniformed cops.
There was one man in the room who was not part of the task force. The division commander, Captain Bill Paulson, sat in a corner sipping herbal tea from a seemingly bottomless mug.
“All right, everybody.” Delgado’s calm, authoritative voice instantly silenced the low babble of conversation. “Let’s go over what we have.”
He summarized the situation they were faced with. Nearly two weeks had passed since Elizabeth Osborn’s murder, and with the elimination of Albert Garrett as a suspect, the task force appeared to be no closer to finding the killer.
The only recent development, one that was not unexpected, had been the delivery on Friday of the third tape. Over the weekend Delgado had listened to it many times; he now had a new voice to haunt his sleep.
Frustration was building. Delgado did his best to boost morale. “The case could break wide open at any time,” he reminded them. “So let’s hear what you have. Eddie?”
Eddie Torres frowned. “The spotters at the funeral saw a few unfamiliar faces, but we’ve checked out those guys, and they’re clean. The photos SID snapped of the gawkers at the Osborn crime scene haven’t yielded diddly. We’ve compared them to the crowd shots from the first two murders, and we can’t make any matches. Two black-and-whites are running regular patrols of Osborn’s neighborhood, and they’ve caught a few thrill seekers nosing around, but nobody interesting.”
“And the hardware stores?”
“No luck on the hacksaw or blades.” Torres sighed. “Basically, Seb, we’re batting zero.”
“Maybe not for long,” Delgado said, trying to sound reassuring. “Donna, Harry, how about you?”
“Still at it, Seb,” Donna Wildman answered. “Going through Osborn’s Rolodex. She had a lot of friends and even more business associates.”
“We’ve finished interviewing her neighbors,” Harry Jacobs added. “They barely knew her, as usual in the big city. And we’ve found her datebook, so we’re calling up her old boyfriends and, I think, scaring the shit out of them.”
“That can’t be helped.”
“As for linking her with the other victims—so far, nothing.”
“Her ex-husband?”
“Alibied,” Wildman said. “Yeah, that occurred to us too. Guy cools the first two just to make the third one look random. But it turns out that only happens on TV.”
“What else are you pursuing?”
Wildman shrugged. “What aren’t we? Her medical records, family history, recent vacations. The works.”
“Okay. Tommy?”
Tom Gardner, the task force’s liaison with Forensics, looked up from the Bic pen he was rolling restlessly between his palms.
“We’ve printed all of Osborn’s friends and neighbors,” he said, “anyone who might have been in that house. There was a lot of glass, and SID found plenty of latents. We’re working on eliminating prints now. Donna and Harry got me a list of the people in the Rolodex and the datebook, and we’re printing them too. It’s a hell of a job, and the evidence techs say this bastard wears gloves anyway.”
Delgado ignored his last comment. It was true that smooth glove prints had been found at the crime scenes, but there was always a chance that the killer had removed his gloves before or after one of the
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